ky. They
did little else but sing your praises. One might have thought that you
had invented the world-or Hamley."

"Yet they would chafe if I were to appear among them without these." He
glanced down at the Quaker clothes he wore, and made a gesture towards
the broadbrimmed hat reposing on a footstool near by.

"It is good to see that you are not changed, not spoiled at all," she
remarked, smiling. "Though, indeed, how could you be, who always work
for others and never for yourself? All I envy you is your friends. You
make them and keep them so."

She sighed, and a shadow came into her eyes suddenly. She was thinking
of Eglington. Did he make friends--true friends? In London--was there
one she knew who would cleave to him for love of him? In England--had
she ever seen one? In Hamley, where his people had been for so many
generations, had she found one?

Herself? Yes, she was his true friend. She would do what would she not
do to help him, to serve his interests? What had she not done since she
married Her fortune, it was his; her every waking hour had been filled
with something devised to help him on his way. Had he ever said to her:
"Hylda, you are a help to me"? He had admired her--but was he singular
in that? Before she married there were many--since, there had been
many--who had shown, some with tact and carefulness, others with a
crudeness making her shudder, that they admired her; and, if they
might, would have given their admiration another name with other
manifestations. Had she repelled it all? She had been too sure of
herself to draw her skirts about her; she was too proud to let any man
put her at any disadvantage. She had been safe, because her heart had
been untouched. The Duchess of Snowdon, once beautiful, but now with
a face like a mask, enamelled and rouged and lifeless, had said to her
once: "My dear, I ought to have died at thirty. When I was twenty-three
I wanted to squeeze the orange dry in a handful of years, and then go
out suddenly, and let the dust of forgetfulness cover my bones. I had
one child, a boy, and would have no more; and I squeezed the orange! But
I didn't go at thirty, and yet the orange was dry. My boy died; and you
see what I am--a fright, I know it; and I dress like a child of twenty;
and I can't help it."

There had been moments, once, when Hylda, too, had wished to squeeze the
orange dry, but something behind, calling to her, had held her back. She
had dropped her anchor